BSC plus eleven years
by Seyi
Summary: The BSC meets eleven years after the end of middle school for a...well, read and find out. Unconventional pairings and different outcomes for each! R&R, por favor!!!
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: I don't own them. I can only wish.  
  
Rating: PG-13 for a little language.  
  
**Mary Anne Spier***  
  
Mary Anne rolled over in the soft, silky warmth of her bed, groaning at the intense pressure on her bladder. She got up and practically ran to the bathroom. When she finished, she washed her hands and glanced at her reflection.  
  
"I am getting SO huge," she murmured, staring at her reflection in the full-length mirror hanging on the wall. She placed her palms down flat on her distended abdomen, marveling at how the skin had stretched over the past six months. As if that reminded her, she reached for a large tube of coca butter, lifted up her Oxford University t-shirt, and began to massage the cream into her sides.  
  
A slightly rustling noise at the doorway of the bathroom startled her, and she looked up in time to see Cary, her husband, looking at her, blinking rapidly at the light. He looked like a little boy, dressed only in a pair of blue pajama bottoms, his hair mussed. "You okay?"  
  
"Just fine," Mary Anne said, quietly. "This little guy was kicking me quite a bit, though."  
  
Cary yawned and ran his fingers through his hair, mussing it up even more. "Well now, don't-" and another yawn nearly cracked his jaw. Mary Anne smiled. "Cary, go back to sleep. I'll be there in a minute."  
  
"Yeah...." Cary was too tired to argue. He turned around and headed back for the warmth of his covers. Mary Anne flipped off the light, and crept back to the warmth of their bed. All she could see of Cary was a tuft of dirty-blond hair poking up from under the covers.  
  
"Cary?"  
  
The hair didn't move. Mary Anne tiptoed over to the side of the bed, and rested her knee on it. "Cary?"  
  
He still didn't move.  
  
Mary Anne grabbed a copy of People magazine from the bedside table, and headed for the living room. A glance at the digital clock told her that it was nearly five-thirty- an ungodly hour in Cary's standards- but she felt like being up. She crept into the kitchen, and flipped on the light.  
  
Bending backwards in an attempt to stretch out the small of her back, she straightened and squatted down, trying to reach the pans in the floor cupboard. "Drat this tummy!"  
  
Somehow, she managed to get the pan, and set to work cutting and peeling various vegetables, as well as breaking three eggs into a bowl and whisking them well together. She dropped the veggies into the pan with a bit of oil and began to sauté them.  
  
Humming as she stirred her dish, which was beginning to fill the kitchen with a delicious aroma, she opened the magazine and began to read through it. This habit, although pretty bad, was one she had picked up from her stepmother, Sharon- she was ALWAYS reading in the kitchen, which led to many mishaps over the years.  
  
She poured her eggs over the vegetables, sprinkled on a little black pepper, and busied herself looking for the spatula, all while reading the magazine. All of a sudden, she saw something in it that made her gasp, then laugh. "Oh, my gosh!"  
  
"What's so funny?" Cary sauntered into the kitchen, sniffing the air appreciatlivly, the sleepy look in his eyes now being replaced by one of hunger.  
  
"I thought you were still sleeping," Mary Anne said with a smile, raising her face for the peck her husband gave her on the lips.  
  
"I was, but the smell, oh, the smell...what TIME is it, anyway?" He peered in her pan, licking his lips. "Is there enough for me?"  
  
"Get away!" Mary Anne laughed and took a swing at him with her spatula. "If you want some, there's still plenty of vegetables and eggs left in the fridge."  
  
"This has VEGEtables in it?" he said incredulously. "It smells so good, though."  
  
Marry Anne scooped the omelet out of the pan and onto a waiting plate, putting it behind her to ward off his wandering fingers. "It is good. Dawn taught me how to make it, a long time ago, when we were still kids. I just had a craving for it this morning, I guess. I can make you one, if you want."  
  
Cary screwed up his face and shook his head. "No, thank you. I'll put sausage in mine, I think." He began rummaging in the fridge for all the nessecary ingredients.  
  
"Cary?"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"Take a look at this. Do you recognize her?"  
  
Cary picked up the magazine, staring at the picture of a slender Asian woman who Mary Anne had pointed out. She was dressed unconventionally in a short, tight white skirt, a tight leather t-shirt, a white suit jacket, and matching knee-length boots. Thin silver hoops from her ears nearly touched her shoulders, and she was wearing a furry white newsboy cap that was decorated by three black leather buttons. Her sleeves were scrunched up, eighties-style, and she had on tight black leather gloves. She was also carrying a black-and-white man's walking stick. In spite of the bizarre quality of the outfit, it looked incredibly classy on HER.  
  
"Whoa, Claudia KISHI? Made the stylewatch's winner's circle?" Cary dropped the magazine and began to fry his sausage. "That girl is getting famous."  
  
"She is," Mary Anne said. "Claudia- could you put the kettle on, Cary?- is really getting famous, now. I saw an article about her New York show in the paper, and she's having a show in Paris as well, just like she did last year."  
  
Cary tuned his omelet over with loving care. "Isn't she married to-"  
  
"Yeah, Todd Kendall." Mary Anne stood up and shook the water around in the kettle, trying to make it boil faster. "That probably explains all the publicity she's getting."  
  
Cary nodded sagely and lifted his steaming eggs to a plate. "Have you heard from her recently?"  
  
"Not since Jade was born," Mary Anne sighed and pushed back a lock of hair, staring musingly at the picture. "She looks so good. I don't think she's changed at all since college."  
  
"You look pretty good yourself," Cary said, caressingly. Then he added in a lighter tone, "Eat, woman. You're eating for two now, you know."  
  
The water began to boil, and Mary Anne made her tea, then sat down at the table with her husband. They began to eat in companionable silence. "Hey," said Cary, with his mouth full, after a few minutes- "Remember that silly club you were all in? I mean, in junior high?"  
  
Mary Anne laughed out loud, her normally soft, even-toned voice reverberating through the kitchen. "You mean the BSC? I'll never forget that club. You tortured us constantly, if I remember correctly."  
  
Cary grinned impishly. "I helped you out, though. Remember when that girl, Candy, was trying to steal your man?"  
  
"Her name was Cokie, NOT Candy- and Logan and I had broken up by then- the year before high school, I think. Yes, you DID help me out with Cokie. Did I ever thank you properly, by the way?"  
  
"You danced with me that night." Cary gave her another grin. "And I realized for the first time that shyness is cute."  
  
"Oh, please." Mary Anne rolled her eyes, though she felt herself blushing. "YOU had a little something going on with Kristy Thomas in high school, if I recall correctly. You didn't even NOTICE me till you came back from Oxford." Cary had dated Kristy on-and-off throughout high school, and once in college. Then he'd headed off to England to get his master's degree, and when he came back, Kristy was gone. That's when he'd started spending time with Mary Anne.  
  
Cary shrugged. "Think whatever you want."  
  
Mary Anne laughed, then dug into her food. "It'll be interesting seeing all of them again at the reunion."  
  
Cary groaned. "Don't remind me. I hate those things."  
  
"How can you hate them, when you've never been to one?"  
  
"I KNOW I'll hate it. What kind of a school throws an eleven year reunion? ELEVEN years?"  
  
"They couldn't throw it last year, because the superintendent passed away."  
  
Cary rolled his eyes and took a sip of his wife's tea. "It's not like you keep in touch with any of them, anyway."  
  
Mary Anne gave him a severe look. "That's not true. I talk to Mallory and Shannon all the time. I saw Kristy last year at Charlie's wedding, and Abby, Stacey, Jessi and Logan still call on holidays and things like that. I talked to Dawn and Gracie just yesterday," she said, referring to her stepsister and her younger half-sister.  
  
Cary's face sobered at the mention of her name. "Is she..."  
  
"She's a lot better." Mary Anne didn't choose to elaborate, and Cary didn't push her. Instead, he laid his hand over hers. "Are they all coming down for the SHS shindig?" he asked after a moment.  
  
His wife's face brightened slightly, though he could detect a slight sheen of tears in the corners of her eyes. "Far as I know, yes," she said. "Maybe we could have a BSC reunion party or something."  
  
"Good, lord, as Claudia used to say. The BSC together again? I don't think that I can handle that." Cary made a mock-serious face and leaned in to kiss her, but Mary Anne pushed him away, impatiently.  
  
"Are you kidding? It's a fantastic idea!" Mary Anne leaped to her feet, rifling through the 'junk drawer' for her address book. "I'll call everyone. We can even meet in Claudia's old house; the Kishis would probably love it. I'll call up Mal and Abby and Shannon and Kristy and...."  
  
Cary looked at her, amused. It was so rare for his normally sweet, sensitive, quiet wife to get so worked up about something, that he immensely enjoyed watching her when she did. "You sound just like Kristy used to."  
  
Mary Anne spun around, the combination of her sudden move and the petiteness of her form, as well as her ponderous belly nearly throwing her off balance. Cary leaped up to steady her, but she was already headed for the phone.  
  
"You can't call anyone at this hour, Mary Anne!" Cary was running after her. "Mary Anne?"  
  
***Claudia Kishi****  
  
"Mrs. Kendall! Mrs. Kendall!"  
  
Claudia Lynn Kendall rushed through the crowd of reporters, struggling to keep her head buried in the high collar of her Carmen Sandiego style trenchcoat, though the weather outside was warm. She immediately jumped into the waiting black Jaguar on the corner. "Drive!" she gasped, then turned and gave a furious look to the man sitting next to her in the backseat.  
  
"Todd Christopher Kendall!" she said, even as he winced at the use of his full name. "WHAT is going on? I came a whole day later than you so I wouldn't have to be hounded by those damned reporters!"  
  
"Sweetie..." He looked at her mournfully. "you know they always find out, somehow. I'm sorry. I really am."  
  
Claudia glared at him, folding her arms over her chest.  
  
"C'mon...you're not going to stay mad, are you? I took the day off shooting so I could meet you at the airport." he leaned closer and began to rub her neck and shoulders with warm, gentle fingers. "Now, how was France?"  
  
"Every bit as beautiful as I expected." With a sigh, Claudia sat up straighter, looking into her husband's eyes. It was impossible for her to stay mad at him for long. He was just TOO gorgeous- dark green eyes, thick, blonde hair, and a deep dimple in his left cheek that could instantly turn his usually serious expression from that of a deacon to a daredevil. "Where's Jade?"  
  
Todd gave her a secret smile and lifted a huge blanked lying on the seat between them. A large lump was under it, and Todd raised it to reveal a little girl, curled up and sleeping soundly. "She insisted on meeting you."  
  
Claudia smiled, all annoyances forgotten, and lifted the child onto her lap. "Jade?" she said. "Jade, sweetie? Mommy's back."  
  
The girl opened her eyes and blinked them at Claudia, reaching up to hug her with short arms. Claudia squeezed the girl tenderly. She'd been away from her daughter for two months while she was in France preparing a show, and she had been so frightened that the child wouldn't remember her.  
  
She pulled her back and kissed her, looking at her face in satisfaction. Jade was a perfect combination of both her parents- she'd inherited Claudia's smooth, satiny ivory skin, dark hair, and almond-shaped eyes, but inherited her father's super-curly hair texture, thick lashes, and the vivid eye color that was the reason for her name, as well as his famous dimple.  
  
Jade snuggled back to sleep, and Claudia turned to kiss her husband soundly on the lips. He then yawned, resting his curly head on his daughter's side. Amused, Claudia played with his hair, gazing down at the face that had graced so many magazine covers over the past few months. She still couldn't believe that she, Claudia Kishi, was married to a movie star!  
  
It hadn't always been that way, she reflected. She had met Todd after college, while he was still a struggling actor, playing Hamlet as an understudy in a small off-Broadway production of the Shakesphere play. She herself was a struggling artist, teaching classes to seniors on the weekends in order to make a few extra bucks. They began dating, and quickly got serious, eloping and moving into a small studio apartment outside Connecticut.  
  
Todd's big break had come in the form of a complete accident, and his co- starring, scene-stealing role in the romantic comedy "Getting to know you," had launched him to instant stardom. He was offered millions to do everything from toilet paper endorsements to the WWF, and the young couple found themselves in a whirlwind of almost sudden publicity, fame and fortune. And on top of THAT, Claudia became pregnant.  
  
Now, two years, four movies, and one unsuccessful TV show later, Todd and Claudia were living in California with two-year-old Jade, and Todd's career gave Claudia the exposure she needed, making her almost as famous in the artistic world as Todd had become in the entertainment business. Luck had certainly seemed to favor the two, but....Claudia sighed. Sometimes she longed for the days when it was just her and Todd, eating mac and cheese, just hanging out, without the stresses of a public life.....  
  
"Oh my lord, am I going nuts?" Claudia muttered to herself, shaking the thoughts loose with a vengeance. She rearranged her legs and pulled open her tote. "What on earth?" Her cell phone was ringing loudly. She picked it up, pushing her mirrored sunglasses up to her forehead in a single swoop. "Hello?"  
  
"Claudia? Claudia Kishi?"  
  
Claudia was silent. She didn't recognize the feminine voice at the other end at first. And why would some stranger call her by her maiden name? "Um...yeah?"  
  
"Oh, thank goodness!" the person was clearly relieved. "I was hoping you'd be back from Paris. I called Todd's agent and got this number from her- it's Mary Anne, Claudia! Mary Anne Retlin."  
  
"Oh my word...." Claudia shook her shoes off and propped her feet up on the seat. "How ARE you? Haven't heard from you in a while. And wait- Mary Anne RETLIN??"  
  
Mary Anne laughed apologetically. "Yeah. But you're so HARD to get a hold of now."  
  
"True, true. So- what's going on? How is everyone? And most importantly, how the HELL did you get the name Retlin? "  
  
"Well, that depends mostly on you. How's your schedule in the next couple of weeks?"  
  
"Don't know yet. Why, should it be open?"  
  
"Kind of. See, here's the thing...."  
  
If ya like it, please review. If not, flame away. More on the other characters to come!! 


	2. Stacey, just Stacey

Disclaimer: See previous chapter.  
  
Rating: Still the same.  
  
**Stacey McGill**  
  
"Move back, and set up the shot. Beautiful! And now, a little more to the right for that shot; I want to see more of your figure's curve in this one. Excellent! But next time, a little less of the backside, okay? Now..."  
  
Stacey McGill tuned out the words of the photographer as she made the turns he requested, refraining from rolling her eyes. She ran her hand through her hair absent-mindedly, and then was brought back to earth by the photographer's sharp voice.  
  
"Ms. McGill! Did I ask you to move? You just ruined the symmetry of my shot!"  
  
Stacey gave him a slightly put-out look. "Gavin, please relax."  
  
The aforementioned Gavin pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his red, sweaty face with it. "Look, Ms. McGill. These pictures are appearing in your portfolio, and they have to be perfect. This could be your biggest job ever! You could be famous!"  
  
Stacey laughed and stepped down from the box that Gavin had had her standing on. "You talk like this is a fashion shoot or something," she said, amused.  
  
"It might as well be." Gavin gave her an irritated look. "Now can we PLEASE finish taking these photographs?"  
  
"Not until you calm down." Stacey smiled and extended her hand to Gavin, with her most engaging smile. "Come and join Samantha and I for lunch, and then we'll finish here."  
  
Gavin grimaced, but covered his camera and placed it on the floor. "You sound just like my wife," he complained, walking out the door.  
  
Stacey laughed. "We're meeting in the café on the lower level in ten minutes!"  
  
"Yeah, whatever." Gavin waved a dismissive hand and headed for the elevator.  
  
Stacy turned and shut her door, then began to clean her workspace, collecting purse, jacket and cell phone. She paused before leaving, glancing at her handiwork, which lay on a large, white table.  
  
"It's beautiful....and I don't care how concieted that sounds," she muttered. This was her brainchild, her masterpiece. She reached out and touched the model skyscraper with careful fingers, almost unable to believe that this was her work.  
  
Stacey quietly locked her office and headed for the stairs, lost in thought. It had been four years since she'd began a career in architecture, and she still couldn't believe that she was in such a field. She always thought she'd be a model, or maybe a math teacher.  
  
Heck, EVERYONE thought she'd end up in the fashion industry. But, after dating an architect from Chicago, Colin Saunders, in her final year at NYU, she'd found herself fascinated with the process of measuring, creating proportions, designing a shape and angles, and everything else that contributed to designing a building.  
  
Although they had broken up within six months, her curiosity about the field remained. She was fascinated by the intricate designs that Colin created, and also enjoyed the mathematical challenge presented by figuring out the angles, materials, footage, and proportions necessary to make a functional edifice.  
  
It was in this career that Stacey found an outlet that would allow her to be stylish and creative, yet hone and use her impressive mathematical reasoning. After much deliberation, Stacey withdrew from school and transferred to the New York school of architecture, graduating with flying colors and picking up odd jobs for a couple of years- mostly working on design teams with groups of older, more seasoned men who treated her with a polite yet condenscending manner.  
  
Stacey, however, took this treatment in stride, picking up helpful tips from them, noting their successes as well as their failures, and copying whatever was beneficial as fast and as far as she could. Her parents had been completely shocked by her choice in career- her father pleased, her mother slightly apprehensive. Stacey had refused to be discouraged by anything, and stuck with it. She'd become something of a workaholic as well- her black Prada tote, which carried her portfolio and miniature blueprints, never left her side.  
  
And so, here she was. Now she, and only she- had been chosen to head a design team that would be responsible for creating a new Microsoft headquarters building- right in the heart of New York.  
  
She still couldn't believe it.  
  
Stacey's thoughts were interrupted when she heard her cell phone ring. She dug deep into her Prada purse, fishing the phone out and holding it to her ear. "Hello?"  
  
"Stacey?"  
  
"Oh, hi- look, Ethan, can I call you back? I've got a lunch date with Samantha. Yeah, I love you too. Bye."  
  
Stacey shouldered her bag and headed for the cafeteria, now at a run. Then she remembered. "Shit!"  
  
Turning around, she went into the nearest ladies room and ducked into a stall to take her blood sugar. Then she hurried to the cafe.  
  
Samantha was already seated with Gavin, making small talk. Stacey hurried over and gave her stepmother a kiss on the cheek, then took her seat.  
  
"I ordered you the usual," Samantha said, indicating the large ceaser salad that sat on the table.  
  
"Thank you." Stacey sat and picked up her fork. "Where's Daddy?"  
  
"He had some files he had to finish up." Like father, like daughter, thought Stacey. "How's work, sweetie?"  
  
"Decent." Stacey stuffed her mouth with lettuce so she wouldn't have to talk. She desperately wanted to finish her photo shoot before two o' clock so that she could work on some of the building foundation's dimensions before her five o'clock meeting with the engineer.  
  
Samantha obviously wanted to talk, though. "My, you are certainly getting along well in this career of yours. I really am proud of you, but-"  
  
"Thanks, Samantha." Stacey attempted to cut her off, but her stepmother was not to be daunted. "Now, I wish you'd just find someone nice, and settle down, and-"  
  
Stacey attempted to handle the problem by tuning her out, but Gavin joined in.  
  
"I couldn't agree with you more," he was saying. "Young women are too independent nowadays. I don't think it's decent for a pretty young woman such as yourself to be living alone, and-"  
  
Stacey fixed a glare on her now nodding stepmother, who obviously had forgotten that SHE had been quite the modern woman- AND well into her thirties- when she met Jack. What is WRONG with her? Stacey thought irritably. It's not like she's MY mother.  
  
"Honey-" Samantha's voice broke into her thoughts. "Whatever happened to that young man you were seeing? The artsy one."  
  
"Ethan?" Unbidden, a picture of her boyfriend popped into her mind. At thirty, he looked much the same as he had at fifteen and throughout college- shaggy, longish dark hair, high cheekbones, megawatt smile, baggy clothes- usually splattered with paint- and his trademark silver earring. The only visible change was signifigantly broader shoulders and a soul patch. "We're still going out."  
  
"You two have been dating on and off for years. When is he going to get serious and propose?"  
  
"SA-manthaaaaa," Stacey whined in protest. The truth of the matter was, though, Ethan had proposed to her over four times in the past year and a half. She always turned him down, though. She loved him- of that she was certain- but she just couldn't fathom.....  
  
Her thoughts were interrupted once again by Samantha's tirade. "You're twenty-eight, honey. I know that's young by today's standards, but you're established in your career, and...."  
  
"Would you look at the time!" Stacey leaped to her feet, glad to escape. "Gavin, c'mon. We've got to finish this up." Leaving the remains of her salad on the table for the waiter to deal with, she made a run for the stairs.  
  
"Gavin, why don't you set up- I've got to check my messages." Stacey set down her tote and headed for the answering machine in her office. She pressed play and took off her jacket, hanging it on the coat rack.  
  
"Hey, Stace, it's me, Dad. Sorry for not being able to make lunch. Hope you had a good time with Sam. Talk to you later, sweetie."  
  
Stacey rolled her eyes and rummaged in her desk for a pen. 'Good time,' indeed. She'd kill her father if he even left her alone with Samantha again.  
  
"Stacey? It's Ethan. Just calling you back. Look- you want to do dinner tonight? Junior's, maybe? I'll call you back. Love you."  
  
Stacey smiled. What a sweetie. And she deserved a night out, too, she had to admit. She pulled out her palm pilot and appointment book. Let's see, now, if she moved her six-o'-clock meeting up to four....was it even possible?  
  
"Um, Stace?"  
  
Stacey stopped rifling through her book and looked up. The female voice on the machine was familiar, but she couldn't place it.  
  
"Stacey, its Mary Anne, from Connecticut. How are you? How's Ethan?"  
  
Mary Anne? Stacey smiled at the sound of her friend's voice. She'd gone to visit her and Cary, briefly, about a month ago when they'd had a baby shower. She had just happened to be in town that weekend, visiting her mother. "Wonder if she had the baby yet," muttered Stacey. The message continued.  
  
"Stacey, I've got something important to ask you. Call me back, okay?" the message ended.  
  
"You have no new messages."  
  
Curious as to Mary Anne's news, Stacey picked up her cell phone. "Gavin, hold off for a sec," she said, scrolling through the saved numbers. "Let's see, Randy, Raeffelo, Rero..Retlin!" she quickly hit the speed dial button and waited. Three rings. Then a female voice said, "Hello?"  
  
"Mary Anne? This is Stacey. What's going on?" 


	3. Kristy Thomas

Disclaimer: See previous chapter.

Rating: Still the same.

                                                            *********Kristy Thomas*********

"……and our new president of the United States of America is……_Kristen Amanda Thomas!"_

Kristy Thomas stood to her feet and smiled amid the screams and cheers of the crowd outside the White House East balcony. She smoothed down her dark blue designer suit, adjusted the red, white and blue silk scarf around her neck, and stepped up to the temporary podium to address the people- _her_ people. 

"Ladies and gentlemen of the United States," she began, her voice ringing clear and true, "I have come here today to-"

All of a sudden, a man in the crowd bounded up on the balcony and landed squarely on top of her, straddling her and shaking her violently. "Kristy!"

Kristy twisted away from him with a scream and tried to call for her guards, but it was to no avail. The man continued to shake her.

"Okay, fine, Kris! _Don't_ get up."

Confused at his words, Kristy reached out for the man, but he was gone. She looked out over the crowd for the last time, then turned to look over her shoulder and……

……..and got a faceful of pillow.

Kristy sat up in her bed, staring around ht her room, eyes half-open. "Oh, jeez," she muttered. In the background, she could hear the sound of a kettle hissing faintly in the distance. She picked up the clock on here bedside table and held it close to her face, trying to read the time.

"It's seven-fifteen," said a voice from her doorway. "We have a breakfast to attend at seven-thirty. You have exactly fifteen minutes to shower, get dressed and eat something so you won't be gobbling like a hog once we get there."

Kristy sprang out of bed like a woman possessed. "God, Pres, why didn't you wake me up?"

"I tried!"

Kristy ignored him and banged her door, stripping off her boxers and baseball jersey and grabbing a bra, a slip, and clean panties from her underwear drawer. She pulled them on, sprayed herself all over with perfume, covered her neck and shoulders with scented talcum powder, and yanked on a pair of sheer hose. After retreating to the bathroom in the hall, she squeezed an enormous lump of Colgate onto her brush, the moved it around in her mouth with one hand while trying to wash her face with the other.

"Preston!" she yelled around a mouthful of peppermint-flavored foam. "Have you seen my-"

"Got it, woman," Preston was standing at the door, holding a plastic-covered white linen dress on a hanger. Kristy spit out the toothpaste, rinsed her mouth and walked out of the bathroom, snatching her dress from him and yanking to over her head.

"We've got eight minutes," Preston glanced at his watch and headed for the door. "Kris, I'm warming up the car!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, I'm coming!" Kristy yelled back. She quickly ran a brush through her hair and gathered it up with a white shell comb, as there was no time to use rollers. She applied makeup- nothing heavy, just powder, mascara and lip gloss- as quickly as possible. She grabbed her purse and paused to take a cursory glance in the mirror, slipping her feet into a pair of backless pumps as she did so.  The young woman staring back at her was small, yet stood up straight, her sleeveless dress clinging slightly to her slight frame. Her dark hair was gathered up into a chignon, neat except for a few wisps of hair that framed her face, looking nearly as if she had done it deliberately. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright and large.

She shrugged. "Good enough."

Kristy ran out the door, slamming it behind her, then threw herself through the lobby doors and landed squarely in the front seat of Preston's white Camaro. 

Preston glanced at his watch once more, then pulled the car smoothly from the parking lot and headed for the main road. 

"What did you do, fly?" He looked sideways at her, as she set the station in the car to the sports channel. "Did you even shower?"

Kristy shook her head. "Nope. No time."

Preston looked horrified. "Kris, we're having breakfast with the Secra-freakin'-tary of State's WIFE! You don't _not_ shower when you meet with her!"

Kristy rolled her eyes. "Please. When you don't have time to shower, all you have to do is put on clean underwear, wash your face and saturate yourself from head to toe in Oscar de la Renta. It isn't that difficult. I perfected the art in college."

Preston leaned over and sniffed deeply. "It did work," he admitted grudgingly. "But that's still disgusting."

"To each his own." 

Preston continued. "You look good, too. Positively Hepburn-esque."

Kristy rolled her eyes again. She hadn't changed much figure-wise since high school, and with her dark brown hair, light skin, large brown eyes and dimunitive stature, she'd heard _that _reference often enough. She didn't need to hear it coming from Preston. "Who are you, Donna Karen?"

Preston only smirked.  "Check in the glove compartment, willya please? There's a box in there."

Kristy opened the compartment, pushed aside some insurance papers, and pulled out a small, velvet dark-blue box. 

"Open it. It's yours."

Kristy inserted her thumbnail into the catch. "You're not proposing to me, are you?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

Preston snorted. "Yeah, right. Just open the box."

Kristy did so. Inside lay a large teardrop-shaped pearl, attached to an invisible white-gold chain. She held it up to the light, watching it sparkle. "It's gorgeous." She never normally wore jewelry if she could help it, but the piece was exquisite- even she could see that. "So what am I getting it for?"

"You won the last case, remember? I'm just fulfilling my bet."

Kristy laughed and dropped the necklace back in the box. "Look, I was only joking about that Tiffany's necklace, okay? I don't wear stuff like this, you know that. And beside- you shouldn't give me something this expensive."

"See, that's what I like about you," Preston said approvingly. "Any other woman would have taken it and kept pumping me for more. Don't worry about it. I'm a honorable man, I fufill my debts. Plus-" he shot her an impish grin. "I didn't buy it at Tiffany's. This is an Ebay buy, woman." He ducked her slap.  "And about buying you expensive stuff- did you forget how I got this watch?"

"True," Kristy agreed. He'd won _his_ last bet against her on case she'd been sure she lost, and the bet had resulted in the gold Rolex that now adorned his wrist. She leaned back into the seat and tucked the box into her purse.

"Wear it now, wear it now," urged Preston. "Mrs. Sheffield is a huge pearl collector. It'll give you something to talk about. "

Kristy made a face, but pulled the necklace on and put it on. Surveying herself in the mirror, she had to admit it looked great with her dress, through.  "So," she said, relaxing again, "Did I have any messages this morning?"

Preston made a face. "How would I know?"

She stared at him.

He sighed. "Okay, okay, so I did pick up the phone this morning when I came over. I was out of coffee!"

"Whatever. Who called?"

"A Mary Anne Retlin, form Connecticut. She called about some reunion at your old highschool.."

"Mary Anne?" Kristy's thoughts went immediately to her best friend. "Wow, I haven't seen her in years. What did she-"

"Your old high school buddy is going to have to wait, Kris," interrupted Preston. "Here we are."

Kristy straightened up, plastering a fake smile on her face as Preston drove up to the valet booth of the affluent DC restaurant. They got out of the car and walked a short distance to the entrance. Preston opened the door for her. "Walk slowly, spare the sarcastic comments, no matter _how_ stupid the woman acts," he hissed. "This could be a huge opportunity for both of us, you hear? Don't screw it up with that mouth of yours."

Kristy elbowed him in the side- hard. "When last did I screw up something with my mouth?"

"You didn't shower. You can be capable of anything- Good morning, Mrs. Sheffield!!" Preston plastered a huge smile on his face, took Kristy's elbow and glided forward. 

The second wife of the Secretary of State, known less formally as Mrs. Anabella Sheffield, rose gracefully to her feet, then held out a hand, smiling warmly. "Preston, darling," she drawled, her slight southern accent evident in her voice. "And you must be Miss Thomas."

"Pleased to meet you," Kristy said, shaking the woman's hand warmly. "And call me Kristen, please." They all took a seat around the table.

"Now, Preston," cooed Mrs. Sheffield. "You must tell me all about this young lady's credentials. What a lovely necklace, dear," she added.

"Certainly, Mrs. S."

"You are aware, dear," she said to Kristy, "that I'm Preston's client. And hopefully his favorite."

"And his loveliest," Preston added with a wink. Kristy barely repressed gagging as the woman laughed coquettishly. Typical Preston. One of the most powerful women in Washington was at his disposal, and he was _flirting_ with her.

"Preston," said Mrs. Sheffield suddenly, "Do go and hunt us up some appetizers. I want to speak to your friend alone." 

Preston hoisted himself to his feet and ambled off, heading for the fruit buffet. Mrs. Sheffield then spoke to Kristy, although she was watching him walk away. "What a charming couple you make," she remarked.

"What? Oh, no!" Kristy was adamant. "We're not a couple."

Mrs. Sheffield raised a slender brow. "Rumor has it you two are an item." She leaned forward and took a sip from her orange juice. "And that you live together as well."

What is _with_ her? Kristy wondered irritably. Nosy broad. "We don't exactly _live _together," she said. "I mean, we share a penthouse suite uptown- Pres has one side, and I have the other. We both have our own kitchens and bathrooms, and the two halves of the apartment are separated by a door." Are you satisfied now? She wanted to add. Mrs. Sheffield continued.

"How did you two meet?"

Kristy smiled. "I met Preston after law school. He needed a lawyer for some legal issues, and took me on as a rookie- he liked me, I guess."

As the woman nodded and sipped her juice, Kristy's mind wandered back to her life since her high school graduation, ten years ago. So much had happened since then. After graduation, she'd gone for a joint degree in business and elementary education, graduated a year early, and bean working on what was possibly her Biggest Idea ever- the development of a business she choose to call Kristy's Baby-sitting Agency. To further complicate that year, her father, Patrick returned- and showed every indication that he was in Connecticut to stay. He'd landed a job with a newspaper in Bridgeport, and tried to become as close with his children as possible. He seemed sincerely sorry for his actions of the past, and slowly but surely, became close to his daughter once again.

The agency was truly a masterpiece of Kristy's. It was basically a huge, office-based variation of the Baby-sitter's club. Parents could call and hire babysitters on part time, full time, or full-fledged nannies. Possible babysitters were hired after thorough background searches, then sent out all over Stoneybrook, Stamford, and beyond.

Patrick helped immensely with this business, putting much of his time and effort into it, helping Kristy in every way he could, even up till the point of babysitting himself. Six months later, business was booming, and Kristy was making quite an income.

Then the bomb dropped. Patrick did it again. He left.

And this time, he took some of his daughter's money with him.

Kristy's had been hurt immensely, to the point of breakdown- she couldn't believe her father would betray her so, after they had worked on this _together._ She'd nearly cracked. If it hadn't been for her family's firm support, she _would _have.

 Still, the damage was done.

All Kristy could think about was getting out of Connecticut- away from her business, away from all the memories. She'd packed up, sold her business- to Watson her stepfather, and broken all ties with former friends, including Mary Anne. He'd tried to talk her out of selling, then finally bought the business from her- "You'll be surprised, you may want it again someday," he had said, but Kristy knew better.  "Watson," she'd said to both him and her mother, "I've got to get out of here- and do something else. Something that _he_ can't touch." She had immediately applied to a small law school in DC, and taken the bar exam- then passed. It was then she had met Preston Timothy Fields- and won her first case.

After winning his case, Preston had become so intrigued with the smart-mouthed, fast-talking, bitter, sarcastic, shrimp sized brunette from nowhere, Connecticut that he'd immediately taken her on as a sort of protégé, introducing her to many of his friends who needed legal advice. This led to many of Kristy's first cases, all of which she won- giving her the legendary nickname of the "crack shot kid," in DC's legal circles. She'd been working for a small legal firm that handled oddities such as real estate and juvenile law-  but Preston persuaded her to move into the criminal and political side of law ("That's where the money is, woman!"). He liked the way her businesslike, practical mind worked- and she liked his lack of conceit, sense of style and love of the Blue Jays. 

Preston and Kristy were truly the oddest couple in Washington. She was a sharp, young lawyer who'd been a virtual nobody in Washington's political circles until recently. She didn't come from an affluent family, she had no political ties or connections, other than Preston, and seemingly cared nothing for politics, although she was so involved with it. Her motives? She wanted to become everything her father wasn't- successful, powerful, dominating, and as removed from her homey Connecticut roots- and memories of her father- as possible. She wanted to be able to detach herself from any type of occupation that required her to have an emotional side- and both Preston and her new career seemed to be doing just that.

Preston Fields was a cool, classy, reserved member of the African-American elite, born into an affluent, new-money Georgia family. His elementary school years had been spent in exclusive prep schools, and his high school years had been spent at Eton, in England. He'd returned to the states at the age of eighteen with a British accent and the cool stone face made famous by the British elite. He'd taken that face to Harvard, taking on the unusual double major of media and pre-law, then finally to Washington, DC. 

Now he was thirty-one years old, still had the accent, and was press secretary to the President of the United States, and that's how Kristy had met him. Not too shabby of a connection to have. 

Kristy watched him as he crossed the room, holding a platter of fruit. He _was_ good-looking, she had to admit. Tall, with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, flawless mocha skin, close-cropped black hair, and dark-brown eyes framed with long lashes, his looks contributed to his success just as much as his talents did. Still….she couldn't see herself with him as anything more than a business partner, though they were extremely close, and now shared an enormous penthouse. It had been Preston that suggested they move in together. "I'm a cool, classy black guy who kicks ass," he'd said. "You're a single white woman who looks about ten, and came and took DC by storm the hell out of nowhere. Can you imagine what press we'd get? The mystery….." he shook his head. "We work together well as a couple. I get you the connections, you keep the press interested in my whereabouts."

Kristy had been wary of his idea at the time, but as usual, Preston was right. In Washington's inner political circle, pardon the language, they were the _shit._

Kristy sighed. How had she gotten into this type of life, anyway? It was so out of character for her- or at least for the character she _used_ to be.  Sometimes, she wondered…….

"Kristy!" Preston's voice broke into her thoughts. "What do you think of Mrs. Sheffield's proposal?"

Kristy shook her head to clear away the cobwebs. Damn. How long had the woman been talking to her?

"Um, yes," she managed to stammer out, "but I'd like it if she could go over it again- for _your _benefit, Preston." She gave him a smile. "After all, it's you who'll talk to the press about it." She gave him a bright smile, and he gave her a Look. He always knew when she was bullshitting. 

"I'd be delighted to," bubbled the woman. "Now here's the case…….."

Kristy sighed and sat back. It was going to be a l_ong_ morning.


	4. Dawn Schafer

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything. We've been over this before

**Rating:** Pretty much PG-13.

"Andrew Damien Phillips, hold STILL!" Dawn Schafer gave the little boy clinging to her hand an irritated look. "I swear, I'm going to smack you if you don't-"

"Don't worry, Dawn, I've got him." Grace Schafer, Dawn's half-sister, reached for the little boy, pulling him up into her arms. "Giving Mommy a hard time, hunh?" she teased.

Dawn rolled her eyes. "Thanks, Gracie." Normally she was much more patient with her two-year-old son, but sometimes he acted so…_bad. _Plus, she was _so_ stressed out.

"Does your head hurt again, Dawn?" Grace asked worriedly, watching as her older sister massaged her temples. "Need Advil or something?"

Dawn shook her head without speaking. God. If only she could get some rest and-

_Brrriiiinnnggggggg__!!!!!!!_

"Oh, _jeez_," Dawn finally snapped, jerking up her head and flinging her waist-length mass of wheat-colored hair behind her back. "Who the _hell _calls at this time of night?"

Grace looked at her askance, picking Andrew up and sliding out of the room. They both knew very well who was calling, but Andrew didn't need to know.

Dawn picked up the phone, headache forgotten. "So what's your excuse _this _time?" she spat without preamble.

"Dawn, baby…" the voice on the other end was only slightly apologetic. "I've got to work this weekend. Can't you-?"

"Can't I _what??!??"_ Dawn knew she was loosing her temper, but she didn't care. "You know, sometimes I wonder if you actually want to see Andrew at all, you know. This has been the third weekend this month that you've blown him off. You were supossed to pick him up at six!"

"I be busy."

"_I be busy_," Dawn mimicked the southern drawl at the other end of the line with biting accuracy. "Damien James Phillips, I swear to God…"

"Calm _down," _Damien said, irritably. "Jesus, what are you, on the rag or something?"

Dawn was seeing red now. _"WHAT??? _You little mother-_"_

Damien knew he had gone too far. "OKAY! Okay, okayokay," he said. "Sorry. Jeez. Anyway, I can't take Andrew this weekend, like I said. I'm _sorry,_ okay? Dawn?"

Dawn remained silent. She didn't want to say anything that prosecutors would use against her in court when she ultimately tried to kill this bastard.

"Dawn? You there?"

"Yes," she said, through clenched teeth.

"So…you'll keep him this weekend, right?"

Dawn swallowed some of the more colorful, angry expressions that sprung to her lips and tried to reason with him, instead. "Look, Damien," she said, after managing to release her jaw, "this really isn't fair to me, you know. I have plans for this weekend, and you REALLY have screwed me up."

"You? Plans?" Damien was close to laughing, she could tell, but since he valued his life, he wouldn't dare. God, she hated that scornful tone of voice. "What are you doing?"

"It's none of your business, really, but I'm going to Connecticut."

"To visit your mom? Take him along. She'll be thrilled."

"It's not to visit my mom, you fool, it's for a reunion! My highschool reunion."

"Oh, really. How quaint."

"Damien…." 

"Sorry. How long will you be gone?"

"The whole weekend and half of next week. I'm staying with Mary Anne and Cary."

Damien paused, as if to consider; then he spoke again. "Sorry, Dawnie, but I just can't do it. Take him along- I'll foot the bill for half the ticket. Or leave him with that faggot friend of yours- what's his name? Dennis?"

"His name is _Ducky,_ you prick. And he's _not_ gay. Don't call him that."

Dawn could practically see Damien shrug on the other end of the phone. "Whatever. I call 'em like I see 'em. Leave him with your old man."

"I can't do that." Jack Schafer had made it clear from the time of Dawn's divorce that Andrew was Dawn's full responsibility, and she didn't want to be beholden to him for something like that, although he and Carol would probably take him in eagerly. 

"Well, don't say I didn't TRY to help. Oh- and tell your stepsister I said, hi, willya? It's been too long since I've seen Mary Anne, and if she's still as cute as I remember-"

"Fuck you, asshole." Dawn slammed down the phone, hoping she'd burst his eardrum. She normally didn't use strong language- it wasn't her style- but Damien made her lose her temper each and every time. 

She strode across the living room to the picture of she, Damien, and Andrew that stood mounted on the wall. It had been taken a few months after Andrew's birth, and his father was holding him up in the surf, while Dawn looked on, smiling. They looked like your stereotypical beachgoing California family.

As if.

Dawn had met the Virginia-born Damien Phillips in the University of California, sophomore year, and his sense of humor, passion for the environment and tanned, toned surfer's body made him immediately attractive to Dawn. They began dating on-and-off through their college years. They looked fantastic together- Dawn, with her slender build, her waist-length blonde hair, and her blue eyes, and him, with his surfer's build, shoulder-length white-blonde hair that just screamed, "dude!" and large, surprisingly puppy-like brown eyes.

Their relationship escalated when he and Dawn both decided to continue in the graduate geology program at the same school, moving in together, and marrying at the age of twenty-five. Andrew was born several months later, and though it was a bit difficult to make the two ends meet, all seemed rosy.

Then, Damien made a decision- he wanted to drop out of grad school, where he was months away form completing his Master's degree in geology, and join up with the Ralph Nader campaign, in the fight against pollution. Dawn, although apprehensive, was supportive and continued in her studies, caring for Andrew. 

Practicality soon kicked in, however.

The bills weren't being paid, and they could no longer live on their savings. Dawn wanted Damien to quit the campaign and either return to school, or get a regularly paying job. Damien refused. Disagreements turned into arguments. Arguments turned into fights.

And Dawn found herself divorced, at the age of twenty-eight, with an almost-three-year-old son, a mountain of debt and an irresponsible ex-husband that was no closer to climbing the political ladder than he was when he first started.

Like father, like daughter. It was almost a family tradition, she thought ironically. She raked her hands back, through her hair. "Gracie!" she hollered.

Her half sister sidled into the room, finger over her lips. "I just put Andrew to bed," she said, in hushed tones.

"Thanks, sis. I'll go and kiss him good night." Dawn crept quietly into her son's room, looking at him lovingly. Light from his Finding Nemo night-light flooded gently over his face, illuminating his creamy skin, so unlike the tanned complexion of his parents, and his platinum-colored hair, bleached white from the sun. Dawn bent over and kissed him, gently, and he opened large, brown eyes to look at her for a moment.

"Daddy?" he whispered.

Dawn shook her head gently and placed her index finger over his lips. "Sleep, sweetheart." His eyelids drooped over his eyes. She watched him for another minute, then left. 

Gracie was sitting in the living room, leafing through a magazine and chewing on half a Trix bar. "Dad picking you up?"

"Naw." Grace shook her head. "Jeff is. He's going to Dad's tonight. Where's Damien?"

Dawn ignored the involuntarily tightening of her lips and endeavored to answer calmly. "He's not coming."

"He's _not?"_ Grace sat up straight, her blue eyes wide. "Who's going to watch him this weekend, then?"

Dawn sighed and dropped down onto the overstuffed sofa, swinging her feet up into Grace's lap. "Damien suggested Ducky, but he's always busy. And I'm not going to ask Dad or Carol. Guess I'll have to take him."

"What about Sunny?"

"She's visiting Trevor upstate." Dawn's thoughts went briefly to her ditzy, wild-haired friend, who was currently dating some film major from Stamford, much to her father's delight. "And Maggie's on location with Tyler," she added, naming her other old high school friend and her movie director husband, Tyler Kendall.

"Wish I could have come."

"I know. But you've got school."

"You think….Grace paused and looked at her sister. "Do you think….that maybe….Dad would let me go? I mean if _you _talked to him…and I could help take care of Andrew."

"That's true…" Dawn looked at her and grinned. "Or, we could just sneak you out." 

"Dad would _KILL_ us."

"Oh, c'mon, let's do it. We'll leave a note for him and run off together with Andrew." 

"You're crazy."

"I know. I'm beginning to sound like Jeff and Ducky." Dawn laughed and pulled her hair away from her face. "So? Should we book the ticket? We can tell Carol, if you want. She won't snitch."

A smile slowly made it's way across Gracie's face, and she leaped up, racing for the phone. "Let's do it!"

**More to come on Dawn and Gracie, as well as the others! I will update faster!! Review review review!!!**


	5. Logan Bruno aka Jerry and Abby Stevenson

Disclaimer: I do not own, and would NEVER steal. Me mum raised me right.

Rating: PG-13.

"Mr. Bruno! Mr. Bruno!"

Logan Bruno straightened his tie and adjusted his black Tommy Hilfiger sports jacket, preparing to leave the New York Giants locker room. The Giants had played that evening, going into double overtime before finally losing, and Logan was exhausted- both physically and mentally. He squared his shoulders and prepared to meet the onslaught of ESPN reporters, squalling his name outside the door.

"Tough break, coach," he said, passing the older man in the hall on the way out. 

He shrugged. "You win some, you lose some, kid. You know how life is in the NFL. Better get out there before there's a riot. Thanks for doing this broadcast for me, by the way. I'll send the rest of the boys out later."

Logan nodded and quickened his steps, pushing the door open with his fist. Almost immediately, he was nearly blinded by the flashes of light coming from every direction. Questions came twice as fast.

"Mr. Bruno, does this injury mean the end of the season?"

"Mr. Bruno, what does the coach have to say about this?"

"Mr. Bruno, what could this mean for your career?"

"Mr. Bruno, are you currently taking drugs?" What the hell? Logan thought.

"Mr. Bruno-!"

"Mr. Bruno...."

"OKAY! Okay! Okayokay," Logan yelled, raising his palms to the sky in a time-out gesture. "Quiet, please. First of all, my client Jimmy Hicks _is _injured, quite seriously. He's torn ligaments in both knees. The bad news is that he will _not_ return this season. The good news is that doctors expect surgery to be completely successful. He'll be fine."

"But, Mr. Bruno-"

"Please, I have no further comments-"Logan began, but he might as well have kept that information to himself. Medics were wheeling Giants superstar Jimmy Hicks out of a side door, and into a waiting ambulance, the coach right behind him. The reporters immediately left Logan and swarmed the other two men, having him there with his hands in his pockets.

"……and I'm back in the woodwork." Logan shook his head, chuckled, and headed back towards the arena. Jimmy was going to have to handle this one on his own. There was no way under the sun that Logan was going to attempt to muscle his way through _that _crowd. "Hey, Leon!" he called, yelling at one of Jimmy's bodyguards.

"What?"

"Tell Jimmy I'll see him at the hospital in a few, all right?"

"Consider it done."

Logan turned and headed towards the parking lot, beginning to run. If he wasn't at the hospital to interview reporters, Jimmy would have his ass on platter. "Two games before the Super Bowl......Jesus," he muttered. Why did all the bad things have to happen to him _before the freaking Super Bowl?_

"Hey, JERRY! JERRY!"

A female's voice was screaming across the parking lot, testimony to a pretty darn good set of lungs. Logan ignored it.

"JERRY! Man, I _know_ you heard me!" the woman was laughing now. No, not laughing. _Cackling. _

Logan quickened his steps even more, the hair on the back of his neck rising. Sheesh, the freaks they let wander about this place…….

That's when he felt two warm hands close over his eyes.

Screaming in a high-pitched voice that would come back to embarrass him later, he whirled around, preparing to hit his attacker.

"Oh Jerry! Jerry McGuire?" His attacker, a slender woman of average height in a black blazer and tight black boot-cut pants, was cracking _up._

"Stevenson," Logan put his hands on his hips and shook his head in mock anger, but he couldn't keep the grin of his face. "You scared the hell out of me, woman."

Abby Stevenson was doubled over, holding her stomach, gasping for air, face hidden by a mass of tangled black ringlets. Her shoulders were shaking, and she straightened up, throwing back the shoulder-length curls. Her normally pearly skin was flushed with mirth. "You should have seen your _face!_ Oh man….."

"Shut up." Logan couldn't help but laughing, though. Abby's laugh was always infectious. "You're crazy."

"No crazier than you."

"And you have _got_ to stop calling me Jerry. I'm nothing like that pretty-boy sop in the movie."

"Please. You're a pretty-boy WASP who's a sports agent and who's love life sucks. No difference there that I can see, babe." 

Logan rolled his eyes, but Abby was pretty much on the money. After high school, he had gone to Connecticut Sate on a baseball scholarship (after he got to highschool, it became obvious that he was much too slim to play competitive football), then gone on to the minor baseball leagues, where he played shortstop for four years. When it became obvious that he wasn't going to make it to the MLB, he went back to school, received his masters in business advertising, and became a sports agent- the man behind the scenes.

Now, at the age of twenty-eight, Logan was doing excellently, with clients ranging from fullback superstar Jimmy Hicks to Talia Sorokin, a fourteen-year old Russian-born girl who was taking the figure skating world by storm.  He loved his job- it enabled him to rub shoulders with the crème de la crème of the sports world, meeting men that had once been his heroes, attend sold-out, world famous sports events like the Olympics free of charge, and collect sports memorabilia to his heart's content.

Abby's voice broke into his thoughts. "So, Logan, can you get me an interview with him? C'mon, you owe me one."

He glanced sideways. "Look, Abby," he said rather primly, "I'm sure that Jimmy isn't up to seeing _any_ reporters as of yet. I can't compromise my client's feelings for an interview. _Plus, _trust me. He's not the kind of guy you want to interview."

Abby smirked, both at his tone and at his words. "Please. There's nothing more that Jimmy likes than to cozy up to the camera. He'll be loving it.."

Logan exhaled loudly, but he was inclined to agree with her. "You have a point. He does love playing the victim."

"Plus, we could go for late dinner afterwards. When I saw you, I _had _to come over and say hi. I haven't seen you since the World Series in Atlanta."* 

"Yeah. And I suppose getting an exclusive interview on the biggest sports story of the night had nothingto do with it, right?"

"Of _course_ it didn't." Abby's matter-of-fact tone finally cracked him up completely. "All right, I guess you can come along with me to the hospital. Where are you parked?"

"Let me ride with you. I came in the van, and the other guys are over there taking pictures."

"Oh, all right." Logan opened the passenger side door of his silver Mustang for Abby, then eased himself into the driver's seat and peeled out of the parking lot. In less than an hour, they had reached Nassau Medical Center, in Long Island, and headed up to the front desk. "We're here to see Mr. Jimmy Hicks."

"And you are?"

"His sports agent, Logan Bruno. And this is my….assistant, Abigail Stevenson."

"Ah, yes, Mr. Bruno……he's been asking for you."

The two headed towards the private room reserved for Jimmy, and entered, after Logan sent a nurse in to make sure he wasn't in an embarrassing state. Jimmy was sitting on the bed dressed in a Giants t-shirt and sweats, his young, clean-shaven face a mess, both his knees taped up heavily. He sat bold upright when Logan entered the room. "Bruno! Thank God you're here!"

Logan immediately went over to the bed. "Howya feeling, buddy?"

"_My_ _life is over!"_  Jimmy cried, throwing his hands up theatrically. "Not to mention my career. I could just _die_! They're prepping me for surgery in two HOURS!"

Good Lord, and I thought _Shaq_ was a drama queen….."Your career is _no_t over, Jimmy," Logan said soothingly, patting the twenty-one year old on the back. "The doctors'll fix you up fine. They say you'll be as good as new by next season."

"I tore ligaments in both _knees_, Logan! Both KNEES! Do you know what that _means_ for a football player?"

"They say you'll be fine, Hicks. Let's look on the bright side, now." He passed Jimmy a tissue from a box on the bedside table, and he dabbed his eyes, then blew his nose loudly. Abby had retreated discreetly into the shadows, but it was too late. Jimmy had seen her. 

"Bruno, _who_ is _that_?"

Abby stepped forward quickly, walking right up to the bed, offering both her hand and a disarming smile. "Hi, I'm Abby, a friend of Logan's."

"Hi, Abby. _I'm_ fucked. Nice to meet you."

Abby gave him a sympathetic look and sat right on the bedside chair, widening her dark eyes in pity. "I am _so_ sorry, Mr. Hicks. Does it hurt very much?"

Jimmy chucked the sodden tissue right onto Logan's pressed Dockers and plastered his equivilant of a "macho" look on his face. "Not too much, babe. It's starting to feel better already."

Logan groaned inwardly. He was going to throw up if he had to witness one more of his promiscuous client's "macking" sessions, but Jimmy was already moving on. He arranged his hands so that last year's Super Bowl ring caught the light, a move Logan had seen many times before. "So, pretty lady, how does my man Logan know you?"

Abby chuckled. "We went to high school together."

"Oh yeah? He's a good sports agent, he always gives me what I require. Especially tonight."

"And what was that, if I might ask?" Abby asked flirtatiously, playing along.

"You, gorgeous."

She giggled- yes, giggled! and he laughed- well, snorted- a sound that made Logan's stomach churn slightly. _Why_ did he have to endure this? 

Abby was speaking again. "How did the injury happen, Mr. Hicks?"

"Call me Jimmy, baby."

"Okay. How'd it happen, Jimmy?"

"Weeellllll," Jimmy said,  "let's just say that the quarterback miscalculated the throw an threw right over my head. Innocent mistake, of course, but I ran backwards, caught it, fell, and now-" he gestured at his legs. "Andi won the game for the team, too."

"That's horrible!"

"I guess you could say so," he gave a long-suffering sigh and casually rested his right hand on Abby's thigh. Logan saw a muscle jerk in her cheek, but she said nothing. "I was pretty much screwed." Jimmy continued in his whiny voice.

"Wow," Abby said with appropriate reverence- and amazing calm, considering that he was still stroking her leg. The man had all the subtlety of a yowling she-cat. "The public should hear your story. You're so brave to admit that! And I'm sure your fans would want to know."

Jimmy chuckled modestly. "We-ell, babycakes……I guess I should, shouldn't I? Bruno!" he yelled, remembering his agent was still in the room, "why don't you let in a couple of reporters?"

Abby laid a restraining hand on his arm. "Actually, Jimmy," she said with another disarming smile, "I'm an ESPN reporter. Wouldn't it be easier just to ask a few questions for me than to let your room get swarmed with reporters that you don't even know?"

"You? A REPORTER?" Jimmy stared at her in disbelief for a minute; then he laughed. "Well damn, they get hotter every year! Sure, sweetie. Call in your camera crew- I'll answer a few questions for ya. Is it okay, Bruno?"

Logan nodded. 

"and then I'll see you _later_, right?" he said to Abby with a wink.

Abby gave him her best double-dimpled action, sure that he would miss the sarcasm. "_Maybe._"

"All _right_. _That's_ what I like to hear." He watched Abby stand to her feet and reach for her cell phone so she could call her crew, then reached out and slapped her lightly on the ass. "Do your thing, baby!"

She froze, and from the expression on her face, Logan thought she'd kill him right then and there. But she swallowed hard, and walked stiffly out the door. Logan followed her, stifling a laugh. _Well, I warned her_.

He reached her in the hall, where she was slamming her cell phone shut, presumably after calling her camera crew. "Like him much, _babycakes__?"_ he teased.

"Shut up. That man is disgusting. Oh, my _God! _What a….." and she went on to name several very creative adjectives to describe Jimmy, throwing in a few Yiddish ones to spice things up. When she finished, she was out of breath and Logan was sitting on the floor, laughing helplessly. 

"Oh, shut _up_." She looked to where her camera crew was wheeling their equipment down the hall to his room. "I've got to go finish this interview."

"Shall I tell him you'll be by afterward?"

Abby just _looked _at him, and he actually backed up. Jesus. If looks could kill, he's be freaking _creamated_. "Sorry." He followed her meekly back to the room.

Logan sat and watched Abby as she conducted the interview, looking bright and animated on camera, asking questions, laughing at Jimmy's jokes, sitting on the side of his bed at one point to talk as the camera panned onto Jimmy's taped knees. She's a real pro, Logan thought admiringly. 

After high school, Abby had made it to Connecticut State on a full-paid soccer scholarship, where Logan- and Kristy, for that matter- was also going to school, but had lost it during only her second season, after a severe injury that completely ended her career. Abby had been devastated at first, but in her usual winner-take-all fashion, had switched her major and graduated with a degree in media broadcasting and journalism. A lucky internship had led to a reporting job with ESPN, and now she was one of _the _sportscasters of the decade, believed to one day join the ranks of sports greats such as Marv Albert and the NFL great John Madden. Her crazy, fun-loving personality, clear voice and wild black hair had perfect chemistry with the camera, and she was now a sports media favorite- young, but a favorite. Her personality hadn't changed at all, though- she was still fun-loving, loud, and fiercely loyal to her family and friends. 

After graduation, they had fallen out of touch for a while, but she and Logan were pretty close now, after meeting again at the Little League World series two years ago. They began constantly running into each other at almost every major sports event that housed one of Logan's clients, although their jobs were so different. Hitting it off almost immediately, they had actually flirted briefly with the idea of dating for a little while, then quickly shucked the idea. Both of them were way too wrapped up in their careers.

"Logan!" Logan shook himself awake, only to see the camera crew packing up. Abby was standing over him, grinning. "You slept through the whole thing. C'mon, and say goodbye to Jimmy- they're going to prep him for surgery now."

"That explains why you're smiling, I suppose," Logan said dryly, raking his fingers through his sandy hair. "Okay. Just give me a minute." He stood up, said goodbye to Jimmy, and headed for the door. Abby was in the hall, and the two headed to his car, then to a nearby diner.

Nearly an hour later, the two were sitting and chatting over a meal of burgers and fries- real ballpark food, Logan noted- and relaxing, not in a hurry to go anywhere. Abby was happy because she had her exclusive story, which was currently already on air (she'd forced the waiter to turn the TV to ESPN so that she could watch herself) and Logan was happy, because Jimmy's Nike endorsement_ wasn't _dropping him, meaning that they _both _were getting paid. The two were talking about getting a hotel for the night when Logan's phone rang. He picked it up. "Hello?"

"Logan? Hi, it's Mary Anne."

"Hey! Mary _Ah-unne,"_ he drawled, bringing out his Kentucky accent full-force, which always made her laugh. "How's it going, lady? How's Cary?"

"Everything's great. How are you?"

"That's _Mary Anne Retlin?" _Abby leaned forward, over the table. "I haven't spoken to her in ages! Let me talk."

"Who's that, Logan? New girlfriend?" Mary Anne teased. 

"Naw, it's just Abby. She wants to talk to you." He handed over his phone and signaled the waiter for the check. Abby was talking. "Oh, wow, are you _serious? _That'll be great! No, I didn't hear about it, but then I haven't been home in over a month…."

Logan half-listened to Abby's conversation as he finished off the food on both their plates. "Abby, my minutes!" he said, loudly enough for Mary Anne to hear.

Abby laughed. "Bye Mary Anne, I'll tell him." She hung up the phone.

"What's up?"

"Mary Anne said that SHS is throwing some kind of reunion in a few weeks, and she's planning a BSC get-together. She wants us both to come."

Logan chucked. "The BSC? Wow. That seems like years ago." He shook his head. "Call her back and tell her I'm in. I need a vacation."

"I agree- I could use a few lays off myself. Sometimes I think I'll hurl if I have to give one more list of stats. Besides, it'll be fun."

"True, true. Now I need to find somewhere to sleep, and I'll drop you off back at the studio. Let's get out of here."

MALLORY coming up next….Review review review!!

*(Hey, it could happen. Shoutout to the Braves!! Holla!!)


	6. Mallory Pike

Disclaimer: I don't own the BSC. 

Rating: Same.

_Brrrriiiiiiinnnnnnnngggggggggggg__!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

Mallory Pike leaped out of her chair, nearly jamming her head on the overhead bin that hung precariously close to it. Looking at her desk frantically, she tried to locate her phone, which was now ringing off the hook.

_Brrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiggggggggggggg!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

_"Coming!" _Mallory leaped to her feet and cleared the mess in a single stroke, knocking it to the floor. "I'll pick it up later," she muttered. Half sick with adrenaline from being so startled, she snatched up the phone.

_"What?" _she screeched.

"Um……..May I speak to Mallory Pike, please?" The voice on the other end of the line was female, timid, and quite familiar-sounding. Mallory recognized it instantly.

"Mary _Anne? _I'm SO sorry."

"Are you okay?" her friend's voice was concerned, as usual.

"I……yeah." Never mind that she had three weeks worth of work piled up in various mountains on her desk. She couldn't even see her computer screen.  "Just a little tense. I've got a lot to do. What's going on?" she had a sudden thought. "Is it the baby?"

"Oh, no-" Mary Anne was adamant. "I've still got about a month to go. Nothing like that. I was just calling to tell you that SHS is having a high school reunion for my class, and-"

"Oh yeah, I heard about that. Stace told me," Mallory interrupted, rifling through the pile of paperwork on her desk. "I don't think that I'm coming, though- it's not even my class."

"Yes, I know," Mary Anne said earnestly. "I was just thinking about having a BSC get together- you know, kind of a reunion thing ." 

"That might be fun." Mallory glanced at the clock above her head and stuck the papers on a clipboard in front of her, beginning to type after pushing a newspaper, a memo pad and half a corn muffin off her keyboard. "Call me back with the details tonight, would you? I'd like to talk more, but I have-"

"I understand," Mary Anne said quickly. "I'll call you back after you're done with work." She hung up.

Mallory dropped the phone in it's cradle, feeling slightly guilty at not being able to speak with her friend, but the truth? She had _so_ much work to do. Sticking a pen between her teeth, she concentrated on the piece she was editing.

"Mallory, luv!" After only two minutes of typing, a crisp, British accent-laced male voice invaded her thoughts. She answered without lifting her head. "Yes, Hugh?"

"Will you have those documents ready for me by teatime, darling?"

"Yes." Mallory said through gritted teeth. _And don't call me 'darling,_' she added mentally. _Irritating Brit._

"What was that?" Hugh said, and Mallory looked up, scared for a minute that he might have somehow heard her. Thank God, he was only using one of those stupid earpieces that nobody ever saw before they made themselves look suitably foolish in front of another person. He held one finger up, indicating that he would only be a minute. "Yes- what do you need by tomorrow? The Milan piece? Well, my senior editor should-" he put his hand on the mouthpiece and mouthed, "Milan? Tomorrow?" to Mallory.

She shook her head frantically, making slashing motions across her throat as she did so. Was he insane? She was swamped!

Hugh nodded and took his hand off the phone. "Yes, she'll have them done by tomorrow," he said calmly, ignoring Mallory's wide eyes and frantic arm movements. "Yes, I know. Nine in the morning. Don't worry, we'll have them faxed over by then- yes. Ciao…."

"Are you _insane?"_ Mallory screeched the minute he snapped his flip phone shut. "Do you know how much work I have already?"

"Calm yourself," said Hugh. "You'll get it done. Just……organize yourself." He indicated her overflowing desk. "Perhaps if you got rid of some of these papers-"he indicated one particular stack with half a pastrami sandwich on top with curled edges, curling his lip in disgust.

Mallory took a deep breath, sure that steam was coming from her ears. "Hugh. I have two deadlines today. There is NO way I can finish a document of that magnitude before five. I'll be up all night!"

"Well the good Lord gave us twenty-four hours in each day, thank goodness," Hugh said jovially. "You'll be paid overtime, of course. Are you all right, luv?" he asked, looking her in the face. "You're all red." 

Mallory gritted her teeth, holding back the words that she wanted to say- words that would almost CERTIANLY get her fired. Instead of talking, she grabbed her purse from the back of her chair, picked up her laptop bag, and pushed past Hugh.

"Where are you going?" he called after her.

"On a break!" she snapped. There was no way she could work in such a condition.

"Fifteen minutes!" Hugh called. "No more!"

Oh, she _really _needed Starbucks.

Pushing her way out of her office, she made her way down the hall and out the front door of the _Boston__ Herald._ Good riddance, she though with some satisfaction as she crossed the street. The welcome aroma of coffee beans and hazelnuts filled her nostrils as she walked into the café.

"Get me a large coffee," she commanded the pimply teenager behind the counter impetuously. "Strong. None of that sissy mocha stuff. Black. Four sugars. No, better make that six." She needed all the energy she could get. "And give me anything sugary to go with it."

"Um…..we have coffee rolls. They're frosted, sort of," the boy said, looking suitably intimidated. 

"Fine. Give me two." As the boy scurried off to do her bidding, Mallory raked her hands through her hair, trying to ward off the migraine that she knew was coming. _God,_ she hated Hugh sometimes.

Her order was ready in a couple of minutes and Mallory sat down at one of the little fake-wood tables in the diner, carrying her bags in one hand and her coffee in the other, both rolls balanced precariously on top of the cup. She took a long sip of coffee, enjoying both the warmth and the bittersweet taste of the liquid. 

And to think- she used to hate the stuff.

Beginning to relax now, Mallory reached into her laptop bag and produced her laptop, snapping it open and going into a Word document: "Book, Draft One." One glance at the clock confirmed that her break was nearly over, but she didn't care. Let Hugh stew and wait till she came back- it would serve him right. _Tomorrow morning, my foot!_

She scanned down the pages, scrolling as quickly as she could. "Where's that part, where's that part…….drat!" The part that she wanted to see wasn't there- it was saved on her hard drive at the office, where she'd been working on it earlier.

Mallory quickly finished the last of her coffee and sweet roll, wrapped the other in a napkin for later, and raced back across the street. Maybe she could quickly get to it and……

No such luck.

Hugh was sitting in her office, feet propped up on her desk, scribbling something on a pad. 

……..and Mallory lost it.

"WHAT are you doing here?" she exploded. "You gave me enough to do today. Even my _personal_ office isn't safe?"

Hugh raised one brow, looking shocked- Mallory Pike certainly was NOT the type to go off on her boss. Mallory knew this, too. She took a deep breath and prepared to finish what she started- if she was going to get fired, she might as well make it good. "Do you _mind?"_

Hugh was so surprised that he actually stood up. "I-"

"Thank you." Mallory pushed past him and sat at her desk, pulling off her jacket in one impatient gesture. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" she said, with sarcasm worthy of her younger brothers.

Hugh merely shook his head; then he exited the room.

Mallory sighed and ruffled through the papers on her desk. Hugh really wasn't a bad guy, most of the time- it was the job that she hated. After graduating a year early with an English degree from UConn, she had immediately landed a much-coveted position in the offices of the _Boston Herald, _first as an editorial assistant, steadily working her way up to senior editor, nearly equal on level to Hugh Smythe, both the owner of the paper and her _very _blonde and _very _British boss. She was good at what she did. Her writing was sharp, frank, funny, and her editing was impeccable. Journalists often requested her to edit their pieces- she had a knack for editing without cutting out the very essence of the work or depriving the writers of their personal writing styles- something that many of the resident journalists appreciated. She was fantastic at what she did-

-and she hated it.

Mallory had always been a creative writer at heart. Her stories, journals and reports from as far back as elementary school still cluttered her apartment, and she had several half-finished manuscripts lying around. If she had her way………

But "creative" writing didn't pay the bills. OR all the loans she'd accumulated from college. OR for her Boston apartment. Not at all.

So she was editing now- and hoping to get lucky in the highly competitive world of published writing, but until then…….

She was stuck.

Muttering oaths under her breath, she stared at the mess that Hugh had made on her desk. He was probably only trying to help her clean up, but any writer with sense knew that an organized mess was the only way to survive. Now she actually had to put everything in order.

As she ruffled through the various folders and papers, trying to get her bearings, he eyes fell upon the pad that Hugh had been scribbling on. A second glance proved it not to be a pad, but a medium-sized packet of papers that now had bright red ink scribbled all over them. 

Corrections.

For the Milan piece.

"Oh, jeez……." muttered Mallory.

She got up from her chair and left her office, crossing the hall to Hugh's office. The door was open, and he was sitting at his desk, tie tossed carelessly over his computer monitor, shirt untucked and partially unbuttoned. He was talking on the office phone. When he saw her, his expression changed subtly, and he said a quick good-bye, then hung up the phone. He raised one bushy blonde eyebrow. "Yes?"

"I…….." not knowing what to say, Mallory held up the papers. "Why didn't you tell me that you were helping me with the Milan piece?"

"How could I get a word in, with all that shrieking?" Hugh fixed his slate-gray eyes on her intensely. "You are my senior editor, Mal, not my coffee girl. This is a partnership. I'm not going to leave you high and dry when you have loads of things due tomorrow- my tail is riding on it, too. I'll be here as long as you are."

Mallory plopped down in the chair facing his desk, as her legs felt suspiciously wobbly all of a sudden. Jeez. Hugh could be such a jerk, but when he _really _wanted to be nice……..

"Thank you," she found herself saying.

"You're welcome," he said, looking quite pleased with himself. "I made the basic corrections and pointed out a few things that you should check- got through about a third of it. Just take what's done and let me proofread the rest."

Mallory nodded and began to shift through the papers, looking for the pages he wanted. "So," he said, casually, "how's that book of yours going? Finished the eighth chapter yet?" 

"Whaaaaa-"Mallory's head snapped up with dangerous speed. "What?"

"Your book," he said patiently. "The one about the Native American girl that raises horses. It's pretty good, actually, except for the fact that it contains enough sap to-"

"WAIT!" Mallory held out a hand. "How did you know that I was writing a-"

"Oh, _that," _Hugh waved a dismissive hand. "You work on it here at the office sometimes."

"Yeah, so what does that have to do with anything? You must have looked into my laptop- but that's impossible, I have a password……"

Then it dawned upon her.

"Oh my………."

Hugh was still looking at the article, oblivious to her mounting fury. "Like I said, cut out some of the sap. It's a great story, but it won't do to have your readers nauseated for half of the-"

"You…..you _jerk!" _Mallory sputtered before thinking about repercussions she might face from speaking to her boss in such a tone. She stood to her feet and glared down at him. "You have _spyware?"_

"Darling, that's _such_ a nasty word."

"You have no right to invade my privacy and-"

Hugh rolled his eyes. "This is MY office. The computers are networked. Do the math."

Mallory just stood there, taking in deep breaths. _If I kill him now, I wonder how long it'll take for the cops to get here………_

"Mallory?"

Mallory took a deep, karmic, calming breath, then turned and stomped out of the office, face flaming in anger. 

She didn't even see the young woman walking down the hall with a full coffeepot until it was too late.

"Arrghhh!!!!" as the two collided, Mallory barely managed to keep her balance, but was unable to save her clothing- a wave of brown, hazelnut-smelling liquid from the pot sloshed out and cascaded over her shirt. "Oh……..EW!" she shrieked, trying to keep the scalding liquid away from her skin by pulling her wet-sticking shirt away from her.

"Oh my God, Mal, I'm so sorry!" Carrie, Hugh's secretary, stood there with a hand pressed to her mouth. "Did it burn you?"

"No," Mal muttered, wiping some coffee off of her chin. "It wasn't your fault. I wasn't looking where I was going."

"Let me help you, at least!" putting the coffeepot down on the hall credenza, Carrie followed her into the ladies room.

Once inside, Mallory pulled off her shirt and held it over the sink, rinsing the coffee out of it, praying to God that it wouldn't stain. Carrie was standing there wringing her hands. "I am so, so sorry," she said, over and over. 

"It's okay, Carrie."

When the woman had apparently accepted the fact that Mallory wasn't mad at her, she leaned against the sinks and gave her a conspirator's look. "You were coming from Hugh's office. What happened?"

Mallory shot the woman a look. Carrie Jane Hutnick was the LAST person she'd share details of her office alteration with Hugh with- the woman would have it all over the office in _minutes_. "Nothing," she said. "He just wanted a deadline moved up, and I didn't quite agree with him."

"Mmmhmm," said the woman knowingly, raising her eyebrows, but Mallory ignored her, pulling out her shirt from underneath the stream of water and attempting to blot the water out with a paper towel.  Who cared what Carrie thought had gone on? Half the office thought that she was screwing Hugh anyway. She shuddered at the thought. Embarrassing as it was, better for them to think that she was in the middle of a lover's quarrel than to know her true business. Especially since her ACTUAL love life was nonexistent and all. 

Although she _could _drop a hint to Carrie about Hugh's little neo-Big Brother "1984" system he had rigged up in the office…….

The very THOUGHT of it made her face flush again- the typical redhead reaction to upsetting news, she thought ruefully. Carrie had been watching her face carefully the entire time; then she smiled as if _she_ knew something Mallory didn't.

"Let me take that shirt for you and hang it over the radiator," Carrie said. "It should dry by closing."

"Thanks. I'll need it. It gets cold in here later on at night."

"You're staying late?"

"Yes, I have a document to finish. Hugh and I will probably be here till after nine."

The secretary grinned. "That so?"

"Get out!" Mallory pushed her out of the bathroom.  

Nosy thing.

Once she was gone, Mallory surveyed herself in the mirror critically. Underneath her crisp blue oxford shirt, she had been wearing a sleeveless black turtleneck sweater, so except for the fact that she'd be freezing all afternoon, she was okay, look-wise. After college, she'd adopted a sort of "nerd-turned-preppie-hip" look, and it was evidenced in her clothes- she LOOKED like a newspaper editor. In addition to the tailored man-style shirt and turtleneck, she was wearing a pair of low-slung, wide legged black pants with a wide belt, black oxfords- and her signature-since-college pair of geek chic black-rimmed specs lay comfortably on her nose. Her hair was as red as ever, and sprang from her head in curly sprigs- she'd chopped it off short in a fit of frustration after college, and never again had grown hair past her earlobes, where it was now. Much more comfortable that way. Makeup was usually an afterthought, and her jewelry was restricted to a silver bracelet watch. Shrugging her shoulders at her reflection, she headed for the door. If Hugh saw her going sleeveless in the office- well, too bad. It was all HIS fault anyway.

She stalked down the hall to her office, mentally going over her tasks for the evening in her head. Hugh stuck his head out of his office when he saw her pass. "Mal-" he began, but froze when he saw both her attire and the look on her face. "Wow."

She glared at him.

He sighed and waved a hand. "Women. Never know when they're being complemented. Carry on-" and he waved his hand again.

Mallory strode into her office and slammed the door with a force that made the entire room shake, then sat at her desk and began to work. She didn't even notice when the sun went down, until she noticed a light snap on in the room. She looked up. Hugh was standing in the doorway.

"If you want to keep your eyes, you'd better turn this on," he said mildly.

She nodded, suddenly feeling drained. "Is everyone gone?" 

"Yes. It's after seven. You've been working nonstop since about four." He cocked his head to the side and motioned for her to get up. "Come on."

"What?" Mallory said warily.

"Food. In my office. I ordered pizza. You're hungry, yes?"

For a minute, Mallory was tempted to decline. But her stomach growled audibly, which kind of ruined that for her. "Fine." She got to her feet with as much dignity as she could muster and followed him out of the door.

They walked into his office, after a short stop at the receptionist's desk, where Mallory picked up her shirt, smelling faintly off coffee, but very much dry. She pulled it on as Hugh opened the cardboard pizza box lying on his desk.  When she looked up from her last button, she caught him staring at her.

"What?" she asked, rather rudely- but she didn't care. She _was _staying late, after all.

"You have freckles on your shoulders. Never saw them before."

Mallory shot him a "don't even go there," look, and he took the hint, shutting up and opening his minifridge after passing her a roll of paper napkins. "Help yourself."

"Thanks." She reached in the box and pulled out a slice of pizza, then sat on a desk chair and bit into the slice.

"Coke?" 

"Yeah, thanks," she said through a mouthful of cheese.

"I've got beer if you want one."

"Coke is fine." She craned her head to look on the inside of his fridge, wondering if he was serious. Wasn't it _illegal _to drink at work? Weren't there _laws?_

Hugh slammed his fridge shut and popped open a Corona, handing her the proffered Coke. "I'm a Brit, love. We drink beer like it's water," he said, as if he read her thoughts. "Besides, I own this place. Familiar with Dickens?"

"I…….yes," said Mallory, hardly able to believe that this oaf knew one of her favorite authors. 

"There is so much great food in his books. Especially _Pickwick._That book always makes me hungry- the characters are always dining on sponge cake or milk punch or something equally dedecant." He reached into the box and pulled out two slices, stacking them before taking an enormous bite. 

"That's true," Mallory said, relaxing slightly.

"Come on now, let's take a look at this document you have here."

Now that some of her fury had began to cool and she had hot food in her stomach, Mallory was able to concentrate on her work. They began to go through the piece, editing, correcting, deciding what to include and what to let go.

The clock hands had ticked another hour and a half by before Hugh stretched, yawned and called it a night. "I think what we did is more than fine. I'll fax it over in the morning. Thanks, Mal."

Mallory nodded, tired as well. "Okay."

"And….Mallory?"

"Yes?"

"My apologies for reading your manuscript. Since it was on the office database, I had no idea that it was private."

Mallory was so shocked about getting an actual apology from her usually arrogant boss, that all the cutting speeches she had been rehearsing in her head in case he brought up the subject again flew right out of her head. "I……..okay."

"It really is quite good."

"I……thank you." She paused, unsure of what to say. "I will try to keep my private business to my personal computer from now on," she managed to say without choking. If HE could apologize, she guessed she could admit her wrongs as well……

"I would be happy to edit for you if you wished."

Mallory looked up quickly; but there was no trace of mockery in his expression, only a sincerity that looked very strange on him. "I……I will keep that in mind," she managed.

He nodded and began to pick up their pizza mess. "Good God! How much did you EAT?" he said, glancing at her empty plate.

"Um……five slices. I think." Mallory had lost count.

"You American women have amazing appetites," he said, shaking his head. "And what are you, a size six?"

"Um…..yeah." Actually, it was more like an eight,  but who was SHE to correct him? "And what's that supposed to mean, 'you American women?' "

Hugh shook his head, apparently unwilling to engage in a feminist-based debate. "Nevermind. It's good to see a woman with a good appitie."

"That's what I thought," Mallory said.

He shook his head. "Are all American women so forward with their bosses?" but his tone was teasing. "When did you get so tough, anyway? When I hired you, you were this meek little kid straight out of finishing school and college."

Mallory shrugged and picked up her purse. "Call it the British "stiff upper lip."" she picked up her purse and headed for the door, eager to get home. She had to call Mary Anne back- and she had some laundry to do. "Night, Hugh."

"Till tomorrow. Come in an hour or two late if you want- you've earned your rest."  
She left the office, climbed into her car, one of the only two left in the parking lot, and drove off for home.

And next in line is………DUN DUN DUN DUN…..Jessi! Sorry for the delay in updating folks; I will speed it up, thanks for reviewing and please don't stop!


	7. Jessica Ramsey

Disclaimer: You know the drill by now.

Rating: PG-13. Nothing has changed in that area.

"And one, two, three, _four………."_

_"Go, Jessi! Now!" _

As the pulsating, electro-synthesizer filled music filled her ears, Jessica Ramsey squeezed her eyes shut, letting her body go limp, trusting her muscles to remember everything they needed to know……

And she went _off._

As the electrifying, pulsating music shook the studio floor, Jessi launched her body forward, twisting and turning in time to the beat, moving with both aggression and grace. In a sharp, sudden movement, she lifted one leg and allowed herself to drop, feeling the floor rush up to catch her.

_"Now, _Joaquin!"

Seemingly out of nowhere, just before she hit the ground, a pair of strong, muscular  arms caught her, twisting her around, pulling her up to her feet. She landed on her toes and rested her head against his shoulder, in a moment of staged breathlessness. She then ran one finger down his bare chest, and pressed her lips to the same spot.

_"Cut!"_

Jessi instantly relaxed, bracing her hands against her partner's chest and lunging back to her feet. "A little HELP here, maybe? Joaquin?"

"_Sorry." _ Her partner, a tall, leanly muscled man dressed in a pair of gray sweats, scowled at her. He tossed back a lock of thick black hair and reached for the water bottle that was on the floor nearby. "You're heavy!"

"_You're _weak! If you had been one more beat behind the music I would have been flat on the floor!" Jessi sighed and raked her fingers through her shoulder-length hair, which had come loose from her ponytail while she had been dancing. She grimaced as she felt her fingers come in contact with a dampness that she knew was from sweat, and prayed that her recently-permed roots wouldn't suffer. She was SO getting braids next week.

"Well, it certainly isn't my fault that _you _can't seem to manage to get to your _spot _at the time you're supposed to. How can I catch you properly when you're always-"

_"Catch me properly?_ You've got a lot of nerve to say that when you're the one who-"

_"Enough!" _A sharp voice interrupted their tirade, and a tall, well-built man dressed in black sweats and a Knicks sweatshirt emerged from the shadows in the corner of the room. "_I'm_ the choreographer here, remember?"

The couple looked up and glanced in his direction. "Sorry, Quint," muttered Jessi.

"Yeah," Joaquin muttered, looking slightly embarrassed as well.

Quint rolled his eyes and turned back to the radio. "We have about a week before we shoot this scene.  I know that you two are my leads, but that means _nothing. _Female dancers are available anywhere, and Joaquin? I have at least _two _male dancers ready to break your legs and take your spot at a moment's notice. Quit bickering and get yourselves together!"

With that, he turned and stalked from the room.

"Um, Quint?" Jessi called timidly after him.

"_What??"_

"How can we keep going if you're not here?"

Quint let out an irritated sigh. "Take five. I'm going to look for a fast-acting drug to use on myself."

Jessi turned around to face Joaquin, whose eyes were wide. "Don't take him seriously," she said with a smirk. "He always gets this way before performance week."

Joaquin shook his head and poured the remaining contents of his water bottle into his towel, dropping the whole wet mass on top of his head. "He's a nut. Was he this way when you guys were in training?"

"No." Jessi laughed. "I had to talk him into staying with ballet back then- we were like, eleven! Then, later on when I got into the ABA and he got into the Dance Theatre of Harlem, he found out that choreography was his thing. He's the most popular choreographer around here these days."

"He's a slave driver."

"And a good choreographer." Jessi took the bottle from his hand and splashed some water on her own hand, rubbing it over her face, neck, shoulders and the portion of midriff and chest exposed by her cutoff spandex tank top. Water dripped from to her abs and disappeared into the waistband of her leggings, clinging to each muscle as the rivulets made their path. She saw Joaquin watching her with interest.

"Think I should get it pierced?" she asked dryly, watching him focus on her navel.

He flushed, grinned and laughed. "Not really. You know I don't like you, girl."

"Whatever." Jessi was unconvinced. "Come on, let's get this thing right."

"Ooookkkaayyyyy," Joaquin stepped back to his place on the floor, and Jessi stood in place, waiting for the music to begin. Joaquin began the count.

"And….five! six! Five, six, seven eight!"

Jessi threw herself into the routine once again, determined to get it right, and she could see the concentration etched on Joaquin's face, as well. This time, they were right on point, and when the music stopped abruptly, they were both out of breath.

"Amazing!"

Quint stood there, a huge grin on his face. He had slipped back into the room while they had been going through the routine. "That was great!" he cried, his previous fury forgotten. "Do it again."

They both nodded and got into position, but were interrupted when a cell phone rang, the theme music from the _Nutcracker_. Quint glared at both of them. Joaquin looked over at Jessi.

"Um, sorry," she said, meekly. "This'll only take a minute." She avoided Quint's eyes as she hurried from the room, her duffel bag over her shoulder. Talk about intense. _Who is this, anyway? _She pulled out the cell phone. _Becca__?__ That's weird. _Since her younger sister had started grad school and gotten her own apartment in New Jersey, she barely ever called.

"Jessi here."

"Hey, Jess." Sure enough, it was her younger sister, Rebecca. "What's up?"

"Nothing much. Um, can I call you back?" Jessi glanced at the studio window, through which Quint was glaring. "I'm kind of in rehersal right now."

"Just calling to check on you. How's that movie going?"

"Fine." Now twenty-six years old, Jessi had quit the classical ballet a few years ago and taken up odd dancing jobs, ranging from being a dancer on Broadway for a couple of years to what she was doing now, being a "dance double"  for the movie _Loves Music, Loves to Dance _that was coming out that fall. She enjoyed the change. Despite her love of classical ballet, it was hard on both the mind and the body, and doing the modern dance that she was into now was much easier, and just as fun. Getting jobs was no hardship for her- she had been a principal for the American Ballet Association for years, after all. Now, she just picked and chose, enjoying what was left of her dance career.

"How's Quint?"

"Fine."

"It's so weird, how you two ended up on the same project. Has he asked you out again yet?"

"Becca!" Although Jessi had seen Quint quite a bit when she had returned to New York after college to dance, (she was at the ABA headquarters in Manhattan, and he was nearby at the Dance Theatre of Harlem)  they never rekindled their childhood romance. He seemed older, more serious, more mature- and Jessi was so focused on her career- it had never been quite the right time for either one. Plus, Quint _never _had time for anything.

It was quite a switch from the friendly, fun-loving boy she'd known as a kid.

Jessi forced herself to stop thinking and to focus on her sister's chatter. "I doubt we'll we "going out" anytime, Becca."

"What's your movie about?"

"It's kind of a modern-day version of _Footloose, _but with a girl from the city as the main character. She falls for this suburban Italian guy with connections to the mob. And, coincidently, both of them like to visit dance clubs."

Jessi could almost _hear _her sister's grimace over the phone. "Sounds horrible."

Jessi chuckled. "It is." She glanced over at the studio window- Quint had his face pressed up against it now.  "It's good money, though, and the dance scenes _are _hot. That's all that matters."

"I guess." Becca sounded unconvinced. "Anyway, I'll see you in a couple weeks, right?"

"Right." Stacy McGill had called her about the reunion that Mary Anne was planning, and although she hadn't seen any of them in a few years (with the exception of Claudia, who came to the ballet with her movie star husband all the time; and Stacey, who she had lunch with in New York once in a while. She and Mallory still kept in touch by e-mail, but it was touch-and-go.) "I really want to see Mallory. Did you know that girl cut her hair?"

"You're kidding!"

"It's true She wrote me and-"

"_Jessica!"_

Jessi winced as Quint's voice bellowed though the soundproof-glass window, sounding eerily like her father's voice when she was a kid and in trouble for doing something. _It's a wonder he didn't shatter the thing. _"Um, Becca? I've got to go. Say hi to Squirt for me next time you talk to him. See you in two weeks." She hurridly hung up the phone- and went out to face her instructor's ire.

_This should be good._

As she hurried into the dance studio, Quint gave her a look. "Who was so important that you had to gabber for fifteen minutes, Jess?"

Jessi answered evenly. "That was my little sister, Becca."

"Becca?" He raised a brow. "How is she? She must be- what, like, twenty-four now?"

Jessi nodded. "She's in grad school. First year."

"Connecticut?"

"New Jersey."

"What's she studying?"

"Law." Jessi smirked. "That famous mouth of hers is finally getting put to some use."

Feeling left out of the conversation, Joaquin broke in. "Is she single?"

They stared at him, the rhythm of their conversation broken.

He shrugged. "I'm available. And looking. And if she looks anything like _you, _Jessi-"

"Shut up, Joaquin!" they said together. He laughed and shrugged again. "Like I said…."

Quint rolled his eyes. "Let's get back to work, shall we?"


End file.
